


The Road To Hell is Paved With Good Intentions

by WreckkedRekt



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga), Devilman Crybaby - Fandom
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-14 14:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreckkedRekt/pseuds/WreckkedRekt
Summary: In the year 3030 an outbreak of the Corruption, an infection that turns humans and animals into demonic creatures, has spread throughout the human populace. God themselves intervene by casting angels down upon earth, only for the human race to conceive them as a threat.Humanity, desperate for survival against the demons and angels, creates the ultimate living weapon in Akira Fudo.But with no recollection of himself or his duties to humanity, Akira struggles to live among the demons as one of them.Until one day, Akira meets a cast away angel on their journey to save mankind and regain their place in heaven; the two deciding to work together to put an end to the Corruptions reign..and try to not kill each other in the process.





	1. Dear Diary

 

_._

_._

_._

_Hello._   
_It’s happening again._

 

_I’m sorry I haven’t written you in awhile, things have been hectic._   
_Hectic..is that the right word? Busy, for sure._

_I found a dictionary the other day! It was in the abandoned school, under the rubble of the left wing, beside the.. library, I think it’s called. I know I’m not supposed to stray so close to the city, but I couldn’t help myself. The school is full of so many books! The others say books are ancient, obsolete in this day and age but I don’t care. I’ve learnt so much. I could spend all day there, sitting on the ..play ground? Yes, the playground, just reading about all sorts of different things._

_My new dictionary is full of so many words I didn’t know, much bigger then my old one for sure! The others are saying that I’m getting much better at speaking, that I can “actually make sense” now. I’m glad!_

_It’s so..? Good. No. Exciting. No. Um..invigorating! That’s the word, a new one I learned. I’ve been using it as much as possible. I think it annoys the others, but I don’t care, I’m happy. I was so tired of being unable to express myself. I’d get so mad! I’m much better now. Much better…_

_But, yes, the subject at hand…_

_It happened again. What I last wrote you about._

_I don’t know why it keeps coming back, the sound of glass shattering. Bright lights in my eyes. I feel like I’m screaming but no one can hear me. Maybe I’m just not making any sound. I just know when it happens, I can’t breathe. I can’t move! If I’m walking, I fall to the ground until it’s over. It’s awful! I hate it! The others always get so confused, it used to scare them but I think it irritates them more then anything now. I want to ask for help, but something tells me they wouldn’t. Not truly._

_I don’t know why I’m still here. With them, or living at all._

_Things are beginning to feel pointless. Can someone feel like they shouldn’t exist when they’ve barely begun to?_

_I don’t know._

_Everyday I get stronger, more power over Amon. I can barely hear his voice anymore. I don’t know if it’s a good thing…I don’t think the others like me as much as Amon. He was so much stronger, a leader. He was brutal and merciless, and I’m…not._

_When we hunt humans, I feel bad. Like I’m doing something wrong. I don’t understand why, it’s what I’ve always done. It’s what demons do. Like Silene said, it’s the circle of life. The food chain. To “get over it”._

_But I can’t. I can’t. Not anymore. I used to just let Amon take over when I had to kill one, but he’s getting so much quieter. His spells are shorter. Sometimes when I come to, I’m in the middle of killing someone! It makes me sick._

_Then something very strange started happening…_

_I’ve started crying. Over humans. Over angels they have me take down. Over animals. I read a book the other day and cried when I reached the end, when the two lovers died for each other._

_I hide it from Silene and the others. They can’t know. They’ll suspect something._

_It’s odd, I’ve always been so comfortable with them. But as time goes on, I’ve began to get this terrible feeling that they’re not my friends, not really. That I shouldn’t trust them._

_It doesn’t make sense._

_I’m so scattered, I’m sorry. I can’t keep one train of thought anymore. Everything is suddenly so much at once. I feel everything, everything!_

_I worry when the others get hurt, but when I am they don’t seem to care. I cringe when the angels we kill scream for their lives, but none of them seem to hear it._

_What’s right then? I’m beginning to question the definition. I read it every night but it never does me any good…_

_What is wrong? What is good and what is evil?_

_What makes us good? What makes them evil?_

_Psycho Jenny told me once “We sustain the natural order of things.” So does this mean this is how it’s supposed to be? Does that reasoning make what we do right? All this killing…is this what we were made for?_

_All I know is what I was made for. The Angel Killer. A tool, as the others say, made by the humans and freed by the demons._

_But if I was made to kill angels, then why do I cry over them? Why when I close my eyes, I can still see their beautiful faces screaming? Why can I still hear their begging, their sobbing? Where is this God they keep calling for, and why doesn’t he help them?_

_I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything anymore._

_Everything’s so twisted up and confusing. The more I learn, the more Amon lets me be in control the more warped the world gets. Everything is grey and hazy, like I’m looking through dirty glass._

_I wish I could write to you and get an answer. I wish there was someone reading these. It’s like those dreams, with my silent screaming._

_I’m starting to fear waking up every day. I’m afraid what the day will bring, whether it’s more death by my hands or if I’ll have to spend my day running away to hide my tears._

_What do I do?_

_If the Angels have this God, who do we have? Do we have anyone listening for us?_

_Most likely not._

_All I have is this little book. And it can’t even hear me--_

 

 

“Project!”

 

He blinks, lifting his head out from between the pages of his notebook, lowering his pencil. He blinks and turns his head, amber eyes blinking owlishly. There, approaching him, is a long serpent like creature. It moves smoothly, immense body sliding over rubble and between crushed mounds of metal and glass. He stuffs the book quickly under the slab of concrete beside his thigh, wedging it between the space between it and the dusty ground.

 

“Huh? Y-Yes?”

 

Michael slithers over to him, his large form coming to a stop a few feet from him. His eyes are a deep orange, so glassy and large that Project can swear he can make out his own reflection in them.

It’s unnerving, the way they never seem to blink or move. Michaels eyes always seemed to stare straight ahead, searching for the next target, calculating his prey.

 

“What’re you doing over here? We’re supposed to be having a meeting.”

 

Project blinks, reaching a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, fingers brushing the small valves lodged in his skin there, along the bumps of his spine. It’s a practiced motion, a habit in which he finds himself indulging in anytime he’s nervous. His eyes swivel away and back.

 

“I just..was thinking.”

 

“Well” , Michael says slowly, gravelly voice dripping with a dangerous edge, “No one asked to think, just to show up to our meeting on time. Can you _manage_ that, Project?”

 

Project nods quickly, clambering to his feet with clumsy movements. He brushes a hand through his bushy hair, trying to comb out some of the knots and dirt in his sheepishness.

 

“S-Sorry. I’ll be right there.”

 

If Michael could roll his eyes, Project is sure he would. Instead he gives him some kind of death stare with his slitted pupils before turning his back towards him and weaving his way back down the lot. Project lets out a little breath, dragging a hand down his face.

The meeting! How could he forget?  
They were supposed to talk about entering the west forests today. Rumor had it Silene had spotted an angel hiding out there. But since it was another horde’s territory, they had kept their distance.

The clear cut disapproval in Michael’s voice rings in his ears, his words bouncing off the inside of Projects skull and rattling his brain.

 

_Can you manage that, Project?_

 

Project shuts his eyes, cringing internally.

Michael. He’s known him longer then anyone else here. He was one of the demons that freed him from The Facility after all.

Project himself has always considered the demon one of his closest friends. ..And by closest, he meant he could at least manage to speak to him about things other then killing and slaughter every now and then. Michael had even let Project read him entires out of his dictionary once. It’s one of his fondest memories, really, sitting around the Grand Fire late at night and talking about his favorite new words. Michael didn’t really seem to hear him, only making small noises of acknowledgement every now and then, but he sat there beside him nevertheless.

However, despite all this, Michael tended to be a bit…a bit….

Project frowns as a restlessness fills his struggling brain. He looks down, shifting his belt draped across his hips so he could open the pouch attached there. He unclips the buckle keeping it shut, pulling out a handheld dictionary. He brushes his fingers down the multitude of colored tabs sticking out from the dirty pages, selecting one of the blue slips and flipping it to that page. He glances through the words before making a grunt of satisfaction, smiling lopsidedly.

He taps his finger against the word.

 

“Critical; expressing adverse or disapproving comments or judgements..Okay..”

 

Michael tended to be a bit _critical_. Yes.

He nods to himself, lump of anxiety clogging his mind dissolving as he replaces the dictionary in its respective pouch.

Project shakes his head, refocusing quickly. He had a meeting to go to, he didn’t have time to sit around, lamenting over silly things like his friends irritation. Project sighs, making his way towards the gathering place after retrieving his diary from under the rubble. He tucks the small thing in beside his dictionary, clipping the thing shut again as he picks his away through the old wreckage, following the echos of movement ahead.

.  
.  
.

The lot opens up into a wide clearing, the high ceiling above them opening up in several spots where the stone has caved and crumbled away. Long streams of sunlight slant through the dusty air as the only sources of light. Shadowy forms skulk and prowl throughout the inky darkness, moving in groups towards the gathering place.

Project follows them, their shoulders bumping his own as he tries to blend in.

Unfortunately, as soon as he passes into into a stream of light, his plans to go unnoticed are flushed down the drain.

 

  
“Ah, my boy, you’ve finally decided to join us.”

 

  
Psycho Jenny’s voice booms out over the clearing, bouncing off concrete floors and rattling between stone pillars. She stands atop the Pedestal, a massive heap of mangled machinery and stone piled high on one another. A large hole framing the sky above sits overhead, an almost ironic, holy light shining down over her body. Silene stands a tier below her, eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk as she shifts her stance, lifts her chin and sets a clawed hand on her hip.

Project swallows, shifting his eyes down towards the tops of his feet instead of meeting the eyes of his fellow demons around him. He hears mutters and sighs, annoyed clicks and disappointed groans. He shuffles his hands in front of him and takes a knee near the far right of the crowd.

He can feel Jenny’s large eyes bore into the top of his head for a passing moment before they leave him, Project breathing a little easier when they do.

 

“Today, my fellow demons, we shall feast upon an angel!”

 

Projects heart can’t help but sink as the crowd erupts into cheers and hurrahs, waving their wings and claws and tails. Jenny waves her hands, quieting them.

 

“I know, it has been far too long my brothers and sisters. But our scouts report that this angel is one of unprecedented power, and our Angel Killer will surely reap nothing but a bountiful harvest for us all!!”

 

There’s another roar of excitement, reverberating in Project’s ears as his fellow demons seem to forget their disdain towards him and begin bumping and shaking him with spirit.

Psycho Jenny continues on about the plans to sneak into the territory while the neighboring gang is out hunting and the route into the forests. But Project can’t hear her. All he can think about is that angel.

Did they know the danger they were in? All the creatures seeking to destroy it? Did they know how much they were hated for being nothing but what they were? Did they know they were going to die today?

Project looks down at the ground again, locking eyes with the spidering cracks in the pavement below him.

He wishes he could warn them. Maybe then they’d fly far away and be safe. Maybe then Project wouldn’t have to cry over their lifeless body, a body in which he himself tore apart.

He shakes his head a bit, schooling his thoughts into order.

Wait, what did he care? It was just some measly angel. They were their enemies. Their playthings, their food. Who cares if another one died. Soon there would be none of them left on earth, they had to get ahead while they still could.

The group disbands, heading off to do their assigned duties for the day, the hunters calling for him breaking him out of his daze.

He stands and heads over, doing his best to sweep any other pestering thoughts out of his head.

Michael looks at him, his large, viper-like head craning towards him.

 

“Project, we’re going to head out. You need to get out of that silly body and transform.”

 

“I..”

 

, Project looks to the side, watching as Silene and Jenny head off together to the upper levels. Only the council, their leaders, were allowed up there. The strongest. He frowns,

 

“Do I have to right now? Can’t we wait till we get there?”

 

Agares squints her eyes at him, long teeth baring. She was the head tracker, scaley body the color of flames and a temper just as hot.

 

“Did someone scoop your brains out this morning, Project? Or are you really this idiotic?”

 

Project blinks at her, cogs in his head whirring as he frowns. He speaks slowly, sounding out every letter as best he can,

 

“I…dio..tic..?”

 

His hand itches to reach for his dictionary, the cogs in his head beginning to stutter and screech as a frustrated cotton stuffs his skull. Michael tosses his head in his makeshift version of an eye roll.

 

“Great going, you used a word he doesn’t fucking understand!”

 

, he snaps, tail whacking the other on the arm. Agares hisses through her teeth, pushing back.

 

“It’s not my fault he’s stupid, Michael!”

 

Project scowls throwing a hand out, forgetting his confusion and cutting in.

 

“Hey! I’m-! I-I’m not stupid!”

 

They stare at him for a moment, as if they can’t comprehend why on earth he would think any differently. Michael flicks his tail, muttering, “oh now he gets it-“

Project swallows, hurt twinging in his chest. There it is. That harshness that Michael never seemed to hold back. He opens his mouth,

 

“Mic—"

 

Another body pushes forward, bigger then the other two, more commanding in presence. Valefar throws their arms up, silencing them all.

 

“Enough of this! We have an angel to hunt! We need to get on the move before it changes location.”

 

The other two shrink and nod, murmuring their apologizes as they bow their heads. Project doesn’t, however. In fact he lifts his head higher.

Valefar faces him, casting his wide shadow over Project’s form. He reaches a hand out, long talons of nails scratching against his skin as he gives him a little jostle, grip tight.

 

“Listen to me, Project. You’re a demon, you’re one of us. You can’t go parading about during a hunt in your human form. You’re stronger as Amon. Faster. You’re what we need to put down this angel. If you insist staying in this body, I’m going to have to insist bringing your insolence to the council.”

 

The council? Was he _serious_?

Valefar, so called leader of their group, always had a habit of exercising his authority whenever he could. He was a snake, lying and cheating his way through the ranks. He’d use any opportunity to get the upper hand on him, and Project didn’t doubt for a second that he would go snitching to the council over something as ridiculous as him not wanting to transform.

Then again, such a thing would sound suspicious. It could land him in a tough spot with the leaders, and they’d begin to suspect him of conspiring against them or some bullshit like that.

Project pushes Valefar’s hand off him, eyes narrowing to angry slits as his lip curls.

 

“I get it. I’ll transform.”

 

Valefars wide mouth tilts and curls at the corners, his wide, animalistic nose crinkling as his thin lips twist into what must be some form of a smile. It’s too big, too toothy and malicious in intent.

 

“That’s a good Project. Doing as he’s told. Next time, don’t question orders from your superiors.”

 

Project nearly scoffs. Superiors? He was their ultimate tool. A living weapon specifically designed to take down what ordinary demons could not. If anything, he should be up there with Silene and Psycho Jenny. Not down here in the dirt with these lowlives, taking their shit and pretending not to hear what they whisper behind his back.

Project huffs under his breath and steps away, making his way towards the main exit at the back of the lot. He focuses, searching his mind for Amon.

There, in the fairway depth of his consciousness, he feels a crackle and a spark. Project can feel himself fading, his body melting away, replaced with swelling electricity and power. His body grows, twisting and morphing, the sound of his own bones cracking filling his ears, joining the thrum of his rushing blood.

His heart slows and the world falls into slow motion; scents and sounds reaching a peak before leveling out. The coiled muscles in his body slacken, relaxing slowly as he breathes.

Before he knows it, he’s looking through a pinhole, surrounded by thick blackness on all sides. It’s hard to move, hard to keep his eyes open and keep watch through the tiny dots of light in front of him. But he has to. He has to watch.

Through Amon’s eyes, he watches as he rejoins with the others.

Even in this distant, faraway place in his mind, he notes how differently they look at him.

With respect. Admiration.

They listen as Amon speaks, saying something about their route and splitting up, looking up at him with nothing but their upmost attention. Even Valefar nods along, listening to his words intently.

There’s no annoyed groans. No insults. No rolling of their eyes or mutters under their breath.

 

 

Ever since the veil of Amon’s consciousness has slowly began to thin out and lift, allowing Project longer and longer periods of control, they had treated him differently. Like some weak outsider rather then their friend. But when he was Amon, it was always the same. The animosity would leave their eyes, replaced by nothing but fondness and veneration.

Project watches as Amon takes a running leap into the air, great wings cutting through the air and carrying his great body through and above the trees. Valefar and the others follow closely, moving in pursuit as the lot melts into the underbrush surrounding it.

The sky is a painting of golds and rose, the setting sun hovering low behind the city scape in the faraway distance. The world is coated in long shadows and splashes of vibrancy, Project marveling at the faint smell of evergreen seeping through Amon’s senses, the taste of the city’s smog brushing over his tongue as the wind whips at his face.

Project leaning away from the pinholes.

He looks around in his own darkness, feeling the familiar, oppressive weight of someone else’s mind weighting down upon his own.

It’s a bit unfair, he thinks, swimming through the dark as the faint sound of his own heart and breathing reaches his ears.

Anytime Amon took control, he was sent to this place while he enjoyed the outside.

A large dark space in which his own body floated freely, suspended in nothing but pitch black. In a way, it was much like a room in the way it seemed to end with walls, a floor, and a ceiling. All of which was invisible to him of course. The only way to keep tabs on what was happening outside of himself was the two small holes floating in the far wall of this darkness, each one most likely representing Amon’s eyes.

It was odd, a bit unnerving for sure. But he was, unfortunately, terribly accustomed to being thrust into such a state of being at this point.

Ever since he could remember, this is how his body worked, this was the way he was made to operate.

His consciousness existed solely to be placed on the back burner anytime Amon was needed, which was nearly always. At least, that’s what seemed like.

Project could remember a time when he possessed no mind of his own at all, where there was solely Amon and that’s where it ended. There was no dark little room, no eyes to look through, no transforming and untransforming. Amon was all that was and would be.

In fact, Project was not entirely sure where exactly he came from, when he came to exist, how there became an exchange between his own and Amons mind at all.

Perhaps, he had always been there.  
Perhaps, just maybe, he had been there before Amon and had been momentarily replaced.

All he knows is that the more he questions it, considers this insane idea, the more his head spins. It hurts to consider. Quite literally. It made his head pound and his stomach sick anytime he overthought his existence at all. As if he had been purposefully wired to never contemplate such a thing.

The few times he mentioned it to his friend, Michael always said it was because his brain lacked the “proper amount of brain cells” to conceive such an imagination. Whatever that meant. Project wasn’t sure what a brain cell even was, but saying he “lacked” them sounded vaguely offensive, considering that lack means to not have. …He thinks, at least. Surely though, Michael didn’t mean it that way.

Project shakes his head, trying to clear it of this torrent of thoughts.

He shouldn’t be focusing on so many things. He always got so distracted. Amon was always so on task, no wonder the others liked him so much more. He really shouldn’t be so surprised..

He moves his hands through the darkness, propelling himself through the open air so that he could peer out through Amons eyes again.

 

 

  
Amon and the others are diving, cutting below the tree line. The weave expertly through the branches, soon landing on the forest floor on silent hands and feet. Their wings fold and they give looks to one another, exchanging affirmative glances before creeping through the undergrowth in a line.

Project can vaguely smell the musk of the dirt, the brush trailing across his face. Project tries to remember that. They may be through Amons senses, but he’d be damned before he’d let himself forget any taste of nature he got.

Suddenly, the group is pausing, and Project sees Amons hand signaling the others. They spread out, disappearing into the elongated shadows of the trees. Project presses closer.

What’s going on? Did they spot the angel? Is it here? He tries to reach out to Amon with his thoughts, seeking out his subconscious.

Amon seems to ignore this attempt to reach him and Project huffs, looking back towards his eyes.

  
Amon moves forward on all fours, creeping stealthily over rocks and over a fallen tree trunk until the thick foliage begins to thin out into a small clearing. Project holds his breath as he sees there, through the underbrush, is them.

 

 

The angel.

 

 

They’re sitting beside this..odd machine. It’s large and metal, four round legs beneath it. Project has only ever seen a few flying high above the city, far far far away. He thinks he’s heard them called “cars”. But this one is a shining white, so clean and pristine that it almost seems to glitter. It’s strange that one should be so far from the humans and their civilization, but even stranger that an /angel/ has one. Angels flew, didn’t they?

But that’s not the only thing. This angel in particular seems especially out of place.

For one they have short hair and they’re wearing clothes, both of which he’s never seen on an angel before, and no wings in sight. They’re sitting in front of a fire, tossing some unidentifiable things into it. Project squints.

 

“Something…Something isn’t right— Amon—"

 

_Hey_.

Project flinches at the voice before recognizing it as Amons thoughts.

_You’re being loud. I can hear you, human. Be quiet, you’re being a distraction._

 

Project swallows, unable to bring himself to answer besides shutting up.

He looks out the pinholes again, nervous.

There’s something not right with this. Why are they sitting out here in the open? Why do they look like that? Why did they choose to settle down right here in the middle of two demon territories.

Projects heart pounds and he presses his hands against the wall of darkness in front of him.

They needed to leave. This was wrong. He tries to reach out for Amon again, but is met with nothing but a dripping silence. He opens his mouth, willing himself to speak.

But then Amon is rushing forward, strong arms propelling him forward, muscles pumping. Out from the shadows launch the others, Valefar dropping from above in the tree tops.

The angel looks up, shock coloring their features.

 

 

For just a moment, Project breathes easier.

It’s the same as always. This angel will die like always. They’ll yell and cry and beg as they pluck it’s wings from its back and tear it’s screaming lungs from its chest like always.

And Project will cry, when he’s alone and he’s washes the blood from his hands and face.

Like always.

 

 

Project leans away from the eyes and turns away half a second before something slams into Amons body. Project blinks as he’s sent reeling, body spinning wildly in the darkness until his back meets something solid. He shakes his head, throwing himself towards Amons eyes, only to be thrown off kilter again when something crashes into them. He spirals, flailing his arms as pain blooms across his abdomen.

He tries to clear his head and looks down to see red slashed across his stomach.

All at once, horror hits him like a barreling train.

They’re…hurt..? Amon got _hurt_...?

He touches the wound softly, fingers coming back slick and crimson.

H-He..he’s never gotten hurt before.

Project jerks his head up, lurching for the pinholes, pressing his face against Amons sight.

Outside its carnage; whirling colors and the stench of blood and burning gun powder. Project can hardly breathe as he watches the angel dodge to the left when Valefar swings out an arm. The angel dives for their car, throwing open the trunk and shoving their hand inside to produce some massive..thing.

It’s a machine, one Project hasn’t seen since The Facility. It’s metal and complexly assembled, a long barrel extending out of one side to end in a blunt, hollow tip. The angel lifts it and it hits him, long buried flashes of these machines pointed at Projects own face through the bars of a cage. Someone is screaming. Everyone is screaming. Project is holding something, someone, and they’re bleeding. There’s so much blood.

 

  
Project blinks as the word floats back to him like one of those orange leaves in the fall wind.

…Gun. It’s a gun.

Project shouts, pounding his fists against the darkness.

 

“Amon! It’s a gun!! Don’t let them pull that trigger!!!”

 

But it’s too late- Valefar is reaching for him, no, Amon, saying something as a bang rips through the air, followed by a flurry of bullets tearing through his flesh.

Projects throats goes raw as he screams, Valefars face and chest exploding into shredded muscle and skin, raining down upon the gentle forest ground like some terrible downpour of death, bright yellow blood clashing against gentle greens.

Some sprays across Amons face, Project himself flinching despite the disconnection from his physical body.

The angel runs, driving the butt of the machine gun into the side of Agares’ head, sending her crashing into the bloody ground before he tosses it away. From the inside of his coat he draws another weapon, a rather formidable looking knife. Project wills Amon to retreat, but instead he rushes forward, bringing a clawed hand down over the angels head.

The creature takes the blow all too well, shaking it off and managing to stay on their feet before lunging forward. Project cries out in fear, letting out another yell when the angel slashes the blade in front of him, Amon managing to jerk his head back and narrowly avoid a slit throat.

Agares comes from behind as Amon attacks from the front, but the angel throws themselves to the side, catching themselves in a roll as Amons blow lands across the soft flesh of Agares’ neck.

Both Project and Amon watch in horror as Agares sputters, blood filling their torn throat as they clutch at it. Her Wild attempts to hold the spurting wound only worsen its effect, and soon she’s falling to the ground, body squirming and twisting in agony in her last moments before her struggles weaken and her form goes slack.

 

 

Amon whips his head to the side, only in time to see the angel sinking every inch of that blade into the top of Michael’s skull, dragging downwards along his back. Thick skin splits, blood spattering across the angels pale face and hair as they open up Michaels body to the cold air.

The great snake barely has time to writhe before his butchered body curls in death.

His eyes stare forward like they always did. Unblinking as ever, but now unseeing as the light of life drains from those familiar orbs.

Project flies away from the pinholes, hand flying to cover his mouth as mortification washes over him like a thick, burning tar.

He’s jostled as he feels blows land across Amons body, but he can’t truly feel it.

All he can see is the bodies of his friends- thudding against the unforgiving ground.

He presses his hand harder against his lips, feeling his fingers start to tremble.  
He…He just saw them this afternoon. They spoke to him barely an hour ago. They were breathing, thinking, feeling seconds ago.

They had plans for tomorrow, he’s sure. There was going to be an after this.

And now….

N-Now—

 

 

The darkness around him cracks and shatters into great big pieces, the world rushing back into his senses in half an instant. He feels himself shrinking, body twisting as it withers back into a humanly shape.

Pain fills his body, now full and sharp and all too real as it’s pushed upon him. His vision clears gradually, the sight of his own bloodied hands grasping at the soaked soil beneath him. He blinks, finding one eye unable to open, blood rushing over it from a cut somewhere on his face. He lifts his head, gasping and choking on humid forest air, the sight of something in front of him coming into view.

White boots.

They’re an inch from his face, a bit dirty and scuffed on their wedged heels but otherwise somehow perfectly intact in color. He raises his gaze bit by bit, following the view of legs, then hips, then a torso wrapped in a white jacket, all the way up to a head far above him. From this close, it’s clear they’re a male.

The bastard angel hasn’t even seemed to have broken a sweat, the color of his face a pristine alabaster. He tilts his head the smallest degree.

 

“Mm. You’re a meld. That’s new.”

 

His voice is..pleasant. Soft in its inflection, but terribly cold in some inexplicable way. Harsher then Michael. Meaner then Valefar. Project racks his shell shocked brain for the word.

Ah. Cruel. His voice was _cruel_.

Project blinks his eye, willing himself to speak, but loosing all and any words when the long barrel of the gun presses flush against his forehead, right between his eyes.

He stops breathing.

 

“It’s too bad..”

 

, the angel drawls, eyes void of any and all emotion or depth, like two mirrors reflecting nothing but Projects own fear back at him,

 

“They must’ve spent a pretty penny on you. You’re strong. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to sentence you."

 

Projects eye shoots wide, his mouth flying open to yell, scream, do anything-

_“I sentence you to hell”_

 

Then theres the pull of the trigger.

.

.

.

 

 


	2. Bleeding Wounds

.  
.  
.

Click.

 

 

Project gapes, heart pounding in his ears as his last moment on earth turns into two. Then three. Four. Before he knows it, there’s a long stretch of silence, followed by the two of them left staring at one another.

The angel standing over him seems just as shocked, at least for an instant. His eyes blink once in mild surprise before growing cold again.

“…Shit.”

, he curses, Project watching in a bewildered daze as he tosses aside the gun. It flies a few feet, clattering to the forest floor beside Valefar’s maimed corpse. Project swallows, a sour bile rising in his throat. He looks up again to see the angel reaching down to his knee high boot, fingers slipping inside to produce another knife. This ones blade is curved, viciously serrated at the base.

He speaks again in that terribly cordial tone.

 

“It seems... I forgot to reload. No matter, I’ll take care of it myself.”

 

Projects open eye widens as the reality of the situation hits him.

He was going to die here.  
In the woods. Butchered and slain like an animal. His body would rot here alone beside his fallen companions. He would never go home. Never write again. Never read. He’d learn nothing. He’d be nobody.

There’d be no tears to shed.  
No one would remember _him_.

Silene and Psycho Jenny would lose their revered Angel Killer, their proudest weapon.

But who would remember Project.  
Nothing but the weak counterpart, the unfortunate side effect of the great and powerful Amon.

 

  
Past the blade, Project sees the other’s lips tilt upwards at the corners, pale pink lips parting to show the glint of much too perfect teeth. It’s not a smile- it’s a grin. A leer.

This man..h-he couldn’t be an angel. Angels did not smile like that, did not look down upon other creatures like that- with nothing but savagery. The only thing shining in those big eyes above him was sadism, some sick form of _excitement_ at the prospect of cutting Project’s throat, carving open his body like some hunted deer.

Project knows that look. He’s seen it plenty of times. In the eyes and faces of _demons_.

That is when he is sure this man is no angel.  
In a split instant, he wonders if he’s from The Facility, here to collect him.

The knife is hoisted up, the man bringing it down hard. But Project flinches, dropping his head low and throwing his arms over it in a last ditch effort to save himself. Without even thinking, he yells,

 

“Wait! _Wait_ \--!!”

 

Pause. Silence.

Nothing but the sound of rustling leaves far above their heads and his own ragged gasping. When no cold steel pierces his skull, Project risks a slight raise of his head, face tilting up. The tip of his nose nearly bumps the point of the knife that sits there, Project swallowing the hard lump of fear suffocating him from the inside.

There’s the faint squeak of leather against leather as the man adjusts his gloved hand on the handle of the blade. He doesn’t move, but speaks ever so slowly in that sickeningly soft voice of his.

 

“…Wait?” , he echos, face a hard pressed mask, “For what? I’m sorry, did you want to try killing some more angels while I _wait_ ?”

 

Project’s mouth flaps uselessly a few times before he can gather some words, the gears in his mind spinning wildly, his mind desperately trying to remember how to communicate under the pressure of living or dying.

 

“I… do not..want..t-to..—”

 

Fuck, it’s like he’s forgotten how to speak. All the words he’s learned over the years spinning away down the back drain of his struggling brain.

The angel’s grip tightens as the knife moves an inch closer, in line with Project’s open eye, snapping him out of his thoughts and back to reality.

 

“You don’t want to?” , he’s saying, “You don’t want to _what? Die_? That’s real unfortunate.”

Project pulls in a shallow breath, his hands itching to move, to grab the angel’s wrist and keep that knife from coming closer, but unable to do so. Paralyzing fear courses through him like an acid, corroding his sense of movement or speech. He tries again to speak as a pain begins to knock against the base of his skull,

 

“N-No! I..angels…don’t—I don’t want to k-kill”

 

The angel pauses, eyes unblinking, staring straight into him. Just like Michaels. Just like Michaels—no. No he can’t think of that right now.

 

 

The man doesn’t say anything, the rustle of leaves, of tree branches knocking against one another as the wind picks up around them. The stench of blood and exposed viscera wafts across Project’s nose and it takes all he’s got not to gag. He thinks fast, thinks how to appeal to this man.

He didn’t make it out of that Facility, he didn’t make it through all the humans and their experiments, through all the demons and their mocking, through all the angels and their screaming to die here like this.

He survived. He was a survivor. He hadn’t crawled his way through Hell and back to let it end this way. Not at the hands of some strange man who had slain all his friends. He’d do whatever it takes to make it out of here in one piece. Project’s open eye glances past the angel, towards the curled body of Michael. He can see inside him. There, inside the great big slice splitting open his back, are bones and muscle and torn fat. The pieces and parts that used to make up something living. Something he…..He…

Of course, the word evades him in his moment of need. It was funny, really, how everything left him when he needed it most.

His friends.  
The right Words.  
The Strength not to cry.

 

 

He sucks in a shaking breath, eye swiveling back over to meet the man’s unending stare.

Think. He has to think. How does he get out of this?

He remembers, once, Agares telling him why angels existed. To hunt us demons, she said, for sport. For their God.

The point of the knife edges closer and Project splutters fast,

  
“Y..You’re an angel! You’re an angel..so you’re after d-demons right..?”

The angel says nothing. Not even his face changes, his expression giving absolutely no indication of acknowledgement.  
Project continues shakily, feeling the blood dripping down over his eye beginning to grow tacky as it dries on his skin. He opens his eye slowly, bloodied eyelashes peeling apart. Project grimaces faintly in discomfort.

 

“I’m a demon. A r-real important one. I know all about demon hives, their hordes, and…and what was that you called me e-earlier?”

 

Again, nothing from the angel. He abruptly turns the blade at an angle, decreasing the space between its point and Project’s eye to an inch at most. The word hits him with mercy and Project talks faster,

“M-Meld! Meld right? Is what you call them? I k-know all about those too. I can give you information! I can help you hunt them down!”

Finally, the other man speaks, as calculated as ever, but the knife backs up,

“..Why? Because you want to live?”

Project thinks.

“No.” , he says after a moment, eyes looking downwards. He looks at the crimson staining his fingers and knuckles, the soil below him soaked with blood. He can’t tell if it’s his own or from his friends, “I…I want to live, but I want others to l-live too. The humans made me, for killing. But at some point..I..”

The flashes of screaming angels, crying human children burst in the front of his mind.  
Countless nights spent curled up, hugging his knees to his chest as he rocks back and forth, alone, whispering his most soothing words to himself.  
The hurrahs of his fellow demons. Slaps on the back. Calls for Amon, never him.

The Angel Killer.  
The Killer.  
Killer.  
 _Killer_.

His face burns. Something wet drips from his eyes, Project feeling trails cut through the dried red and yellow sticking to his cheeks. The angel blinks at him, knife retreating further as Project’s hands come up to clutch at his face. One, two, three tears drip through his fingers, disappearing among the leaf mold covering the ground.

 

 

“Are you…?”

, the man asks, eyes squinting under heavy black lashes,

“… _crying_?”

Project ignores his question and lifts his head, voice strangled coming from his throat as he chokes down his anguish,

“I...don’t want to h-hurt anymore.”

  
At this point, Project didn’t know if he meant others or himself. He quickly tacks on a,

  
“I want to help. Put an end to all the..h-hurting.”

Briefly, he wonders if it’s too much, too desperate and sniveling-- But it seems to do the trick.

The angel blinks. Slowly. Purposefully. He straightens up, replacing the knife slowly in his boot as he takes a step away. He looks Project up and down, hands weaving together in front of him. Assessing him like some animal up for auction. Seconds feel like years as the quiet drags on, Project’s heart pitter pattering in his chest like a caged bird as he awaits his verdict, tears slowing to a stop.

Then, the man pulls his hands apart with the daintiest sigh Project has ever heard.

 

“Get up.” , he says, voice back to its pleasant monotone.

 

Project wastes no time at all clambering to his hands and feet, wiping his face as the pain in his slow healing body cuts through him like blades as he stands on all fours. The angel raises a brow.

“All the way up, please.”

All the way up? A bit confused, Project unsteadily gets to his feet, swaying a bit with unbalance.

The man regards him in silence, void-like eyes skipping about Project’s form with nothing but judgement and scathing. Critical, Project thinks, forcing himself not to spare Michael’s corpse a second glance.

 

 

He points a finger at Project’s belt.

“What is that belt for?”

“I-It holds my..things.”

“Do you _need_ it?”

“Yes..”

The angel considers this for a moment, gloved finger tapping his chin. He extends his hand out, palm open.

“Give it to me.”

Project’s stomach knots up into his throat.

Give it to him?! He can’t be serious! These were his only belongings, the only things that he has ever been allowed to call his own! Project’s hand reaches for the pouch containing his dictionary and diary, wanting to protect it, but the angel is faster. He reaches inside his coat, whipping out a much smaller, more handheld sort of gun. It’s pointed at Project’s head before he can even blink.

Project immediately snaps both hands up in surrender, eyes wide.

 

“H-Hey!”

 

The angel moves one hand to be held out towards him again.

“I can’t risk you having any weapons. Give me the belt…or I kill you right here. I’ve got no problem opening your head all over the ground.”

Project holds his breath, his own pulse pounding away in his ears. He nods his head in understanding. He moves his hands slowly to the front buckle, fingers unclamping the latch before maneuvering it around his body and holding it out. Instantly, the loss of that familiar weight around his hips leaves him with a tide of anxiety swimming up his spine.

He was never without that belt. What if he took his things away? What if he destroyed them? Threw them in that fire over there or cut them up like he did with his friends?

He can’t help the underlying animosity lacing his voice as he says through gritted teeth, “ _Here_.”

 

  
The other walks forward, taking quick strides, gun still raised as he roughly snatches the belt from Project’s hand. He gestures towards the machine- no -car with his gun.

“Go.”

Thick anger burns in Project’s gut as he follows the order, shoulders shrugged up and tense as he stalks towards the thing. He can feel the barrel of the gun press into the back of his head through his thick mop of hair, Project stopping beside the car. The angel reaches past his side, pulling open the door, tapping the gun barrel against his head as some fucked up signal to get inside.

Project ducks down slowly, looking around the inside of this strange new machine as he takes a seat on the odd, plush surface provided. He runs a hand over it, careful not to let his nails scratch the smooth finish of whatever it was he’s sitting on. It’s much like a chair, like the ones at the abandoned school, but…softer. More giving under his weight. He’s so distracted by the strangeness of it, he doesn’t notice the angel leaving for a moment before coming back with a long sheet of..something. It’s plush, pliable looking. Like what humans wore on their bodies. Clothes. When the angel pushes it none to gently into his hands and shuts the door, Project can’t help but marvel at it, playing with the thing in his hands as his anger momentarily dissipates.

“Put that blanket around yourself”

, the other says to him, once he’s walked around climbed into the space beside him. He tucks the belt in the space beside him, between the seat and the door,

“I don’t want you sitting naked in my car. It might draw attention if anyone passes us.”

Project blinks. “Naked? What’s that?”

The man doesn’t even glance at him as he starts flicking on strange switches and dials on the machine’s dashboard.

“It’s what you are. You know? Without clothes? Naked.”

Project frowns as he logs the word into his vocabulary, spreading the..what was it? Blanket over his body. What was wrong with being naked? , he wonders. They had bodies for a reason, there was no real practical use in covering them up, unless it was with fur or scales or some sort.

Then Without warning the car gives a rumble, Project jerking in his seat, hands scrabbling around frantically for something to hold onto as the car begins to ascend into the air.

“Wh-Wh-What’s happening?!” , he cries, looking out the window in absolute terror as the ground shrinks into a green smudge below them, great trees becoming nothing more then fuzzy little tops. The bodies of his friends become nothing more then vague dots, tiny specks in the vast scenery below them.

 

He swallows.

 

He was..almost one of them. Just another piece of dust in the big picture. Body lying there to decay and disappear as if it had never existed in the first place.

How long would it take before the horde noticed their absence? How long before they sent out a search party? If they sent out a search party.

His hands shake, gripping onto the edge of the window with all his might.

“Calm down.” , the angel is saying, cutting through his thoughts as Project nervously looks over to see him shift a lever. The car’s rumble morphs into a low hum, “We’re taking off.”

 

“T..Taking off?”

 

“Yes.” , The man looks at him, small eyebrows furrowing, “Cars fly. Don’t you know that? It’s been that way for over a century.”

It takes all of Project’s willpower not to lower his head in shame. He’s feeling stupider and stupider by the second around this guy.

“….No. I didn’t know that..”

“Hm.”

 

He says no more as he presses a pedal at his feet, the car lurching forward violently to rocket across the sky, Project’s stomach flip flopping in his gut. Amon had flown plenty of times, but Project had never left the ground himself. It’s a strange, unnatural feeling, one in which Project isn’t quite sure he enjoys or thoroughly hates as of yet.

Darkness has long since began to descend over the world, Project watching through tinted glass as the clearing dissolves into the tree line below, the sight distracting him from the motion sickness sloshing around in his uneasy stomach.

He sits back in his seat slowly, the light from the vehicle’s dials and meters casting a red and blue glow over his features. He catches the sight of his own face in the window, Project reaching up to gently prod at his cheek with a clawed finger.

His hair was more of a wreck then usual, reaching his shoulders in a rats nest of wild runaway locks and broken twigs and leaves. The cut that had been gushing into his eye was nearly healed by now. The only traces of the wound was a thin line in the skin above his eyebrow, thick trails of dried red caked onto his face leading down to his chin and along his throat.

Yellow blood still sits a bit goopy on his hands and chest, spatters coating the other side of his face in its sickly color.

He looks over at the angel through the side of his eye, squinting a bit.

Besides some demon blood on his face and left glove, how was he so…clean? It didn’t make any sense.

It wasn’t fair that he got to slaughter Valefar and the others like that and make it out looking so perfect and put together. Meanwhile Project sits here in nothing but a dumb blanket, coated in horror and death.

Project shakes his head, anger returning to him slowly. Glancing up at the stars through the windshield, he leans his head against the window, letting the coolness of the glass slowly seep into his scalp

He lets the image of the stars burn deep into his brain. Until there’s a flash of a memory in his mind, playing across the front of his eyelids like some macabre projection;

 

 

  
_Michael. Project. The two of them sitting out by the cliff. The sun has long set and the sky is cast in midnight blacks and blues, icy pinpricks of light dancing among the darkness.  
Project points up towards the stars. They’re nice, he thinks, they’re……they’re…_

_Project frowns, frustrated with himself as his head gains a heavy feeling in the front, a hammering ache starting up in the back at the same time._

_Michael makes an amused sound, tilting his big head._

_“What’s the matter? Can’t talk again?”_

_Project nods. He points at the sky with fervor._

_“Little…dots. Up. Up..above.”_

_Michael moves his head, looking upwards to follow the point of direction in which he’s pointing._

_“The stars.” , Michael supplies. Project smiles big, nodding quickly. He claps his hands once then points again._

_“Stars. The stars..nice. Good? Um—”_

_Michael looks at him again. “…Are you trying to say pretty?”_

_Project stares at him._

_Michael sighs. “Pretty. It means, like, nice to look at. Like a flower or something. You would say ‘the stars are pretty’.”_

_Project beams again._

_“Pretty! The..stars ..are pretty!”_

_Michael just shakes his head, muttering a quiet,“Idiot.”_

_But Project doesn’t hear him, not fully. The stars are too pretty._

 

 

  
Project swallows, slowly. Painfully. It feels as if there’s a knife lodged in his chest, digging out his heart with the wicked tip of its blade. He tries to pull in a silent breath, but only succeeds in a trembling lip.

The images of stars, of Michael, of his voice begin to dwindle until only the drum of the cars engine and the whistle of the rushing wind outside is left buzzing in his ears.  
Everything he’s ever known is fading fast behind him.  
Everyone he’s ever cared about, whether they knew it or not, is disappearing from view.  
The world has never been further out of reach.

Project keeps his eyes tightly shut, even when the tears begin to burn his eyes and squeeze between his lashes to drip in lonely trails down his stained face.

If the angel hears him crying, he doesn’t show it.  
Project supposes that’s at least one thing he can thank him for.

 

 

 

.  
.  
.  
The next time Project opens his eyes is when a voice is calling to him.

“Hey. You.”

Project shifts, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. He’s insanely warm right now. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept so comfortably.

“Hey. Hello? Wake up.”

Project rolls in place, face pressing against something smooth and cold. Glass, he guesses. Which is strange considering he made his nest on between slabs of concrete, not glass…

Suddenly there’s a something pushing at him, at his shoulder. It feels soft but leathery. His eyes snap open.

It’s dark all around him, except through a pane of glass stretching in front. It’s so black outside that all he can make out are lights; spotlights, swinging side to side, pointed upwards to illuminate great big columns and high stretching walls.

Project blinks, delirious as he racks his mind for answers.

Where….Where was he…? Lights? Columns? Darkness?

His heart starts to thud as he pieces these fractured details together, brain whirring.

 

 

“W…wait…” , he murmurs, a second before a hand clad in leather reaches out of the darkness to his left and grasps his shoulder tightly. Project’s head snaps to the side, eyes blowing wide as a pale face washed in low light swims into view.

 

“Lets go.” , the man says.

 

Projects heart drops through the floor, his body violently lurching away from the man’s grasp, Project pressing himself against the cage wall closest to him like an animal.

 

“No!!” , he exclaims, begs, “I-Its not my turn!! _Please!! It’s not my turn!!”_

 

He scrambles, hands scratching senselessly at the cage wall for something to hold onto. He shakes his head, watching as the man’s lips move. But Project loses whatever he’s saying in the sound of his own screaming.

Finally, a hand slaps over his mouth. Project opens his mouth wide to bite down on the Facility man’s fingers and crush them between his teeth, but the man only adjusts his hand so that he grips Project’s mouth tightly shut. Project struggles, hands coming up to grip the man’s wrist as he thrashes body and head. But the man someway, somehow manages to hold tight, fingers pressing painfully against Project’s face, thumb shoving up against the underside of his jaw.

 

“Will. You. Please. Shut. Your. _Mouth_?” , the man hisses through gritted teeth, face visibly tense.

Project quiets, breathing hard and heavy against the man’s palm.

The other continues in a slow, meticulous voice,

 

“It’s late, so there’s not many people, but I still rather _not_ risk arousing any suspicion with your asinine _shrieking_.”

Project blinks his eyes slowly. His eyes swivel about his surroundings- the bars of the cage around him melting into the vaguely familiar interior of the car. With his eyes now adjusted to the lighting, he makes out the shape of the man’s body and the low glow of his white coat and boots in the dark. He looks back to the others face, recognizing him as not a facility member, but the angel. Only now does he notice his eyes are blue, with the car’s speedometer light casting dim blue across his face. The color is so icy and pale it’s hard to make out from the whites of his eyes, especially in this dim lighting.They’re…

Pretty, Michaels voice rings in his ears, It means ‘nice to look at’.

The man cocks an eyebrow at him.

 

“What? You’re staring. Are you done?”

 

Project snaps out of it, nodding his head a bit and averting his eyes downwards.

The man lets go, movements cautious as he leans away. Only when Project fails to start screeching again does he seem satisfied. He steps out of the car and shuts the door behind him, Project watching with careful eyes as he crosses through the headlights, Project’s belt in his hand, then rounds the front of the car to stop outside his door. He taps on the window with a finger, his muffled voice saying “Get off the door”. Project considers ignoring him out of spite, he really really does, but ultimately digresses. He slides over in his seat, waiting as the angel opens the door for him before stepping out. Immediately, the angel is throwing his arms out, blocking him from taking a step further.

Project lifts a hand defensively, frowning.

 

“What--?!”

 

The angel looks down at him, scowling deeply.

“Put that blanket back around yourself or _so help me_ —”

 

“Why! What’s the big deal?”

The angel pulls a face. “The deal is that all…” He waves a finger in his face, “…that is not socially acceptable in this day and age.”

Project sticks out a lip, eyes narrowing to amber slits as he feels his temper rise and his defiant nature rally around him.

“And what if I don’t?”

Any and all expression slides off the other man’s face in the blink of an eye. He tilts his head, shadows draping over half of his features.

 

“Well. Then I’ll just have to kill you, won’t I?”

 

Project feels a chill trickle down along his spine. His rebellious fire dies and he’s left feeling at a loss- wary and exposed. Vulnerable under those pretty blue eyes. As excessive as killing him over such a ridiculous thing as putting on a blanket was, something tells him that he shouldn’t doubt this guy for a second.

He sets his jaw and looks away, head lowering. He stoops down, grabbing the blanket off the seat and wrapping it snug around himself.

The angel gives a satisfied grunt in his throat, moving aside for Project to walk forward while he shuts the door and locks it behind them. Meanwhile Project looks up, marveling at the building rising high into the sky before him.

It seems to be made out of some beautiful polished stone; the surface marbled and intricately carved as it’s spotlights shine back and forth across its surface, highlighting its marbled colors. Gold plating rests above the high arching entryway, two large wooden doors resting below.

Project nearly drops his blanket with how overcome by awe he is.

 

“This…Is the nicest facility I’ve ever seen!!” , he exclaims, laughing loud and bouncing on his feet, “Are we really going to go insi—”

But the angel is already walking past him, making his way up the long, winding cobblestone walkway. Project scrambles after him, waving an arm and yelling for him to slow down.

The inside of the establishment is even more extravagant then the outside. The walls are draped in what looks like massive red blankets that shimmer and sheen in the bright light, gold ordaining the floor and walls in great big swirls. Millions of little silver leaves are carved above every entryway, and a great big thing made of glass hangs down from the ceiling, casting sparkling little glimmers of light down upon the floor. The man walks past a great big wooden desk where a woman with pretty brown curls, fitted in red sits. She nods her head at the two of them, smiling a great big, overly white smile, as if the two of them didn’t have blood soaking their faces.

Project has never felt odd about his appearance, even when the demons had called it silly. But here, in a place like this, his dirty hair, lack of “clothes” and overall filth has him feeling more then a little out of sorts.

He hugs his blanket tighter around himself as he follows the man into a small little space. The doors of the small room close, and soon there’s a swooping feeling in his gut as the strange box room hovers through the air.

Project backs up, gripping the golden beam fixed to the glimmering hardwood wall as he presses his back to the corner. He looks to the angel.

 

“What..what is this…?”

“A hotel elevator.” , he answers simply, not sparing him a glance.

 

Project nods and swallows. Still, the elevator rises. He looks at the other man again.

 

“Y-you know..I still don’t know your name.”

 

There’s a lengthy pause. Project watches with anxious eyes as he adjusts Project’s belt in his hand. He considers lunging for it, but with how fast the bastard is he might get shot before his fingers could even reach.

 

“Ryo Asuka.” , the angel says at long last.

 

Project blinks. He opens his mouth, “My name is—”

  
Ryo cuts him off without a second to spare,

“I already know your name is Amon.”

 

Project frowns, hands fisting in his blanket.  
“My name..is not Amon.” , he says lowly, voice tinged with underlying anger.

 

Blue eyes slide over to meet amber, Ryo looking at him indifferently, obviously unperturbed by the tone of his voice.

“Oh yeah? Why did your little demon cohorts call you by that name then?”

A small smile tilts his pale lips as he speaks,

 

“They screamed it _plenty_ of times before I killed th—”

 

Project lurches a step forward, one hand swinging up in his fury as his lips peel back against his teeth in an animalistic snarl.

 

“ _Don’t you fucking say—!!”_

 

Ryo’s hand is already pulling out his gun, taking aim at Project’s face. Project can barely screech to a halt before his nose bumps the barrel. He freezes.

The angel stares at him, face like an endless void of nothing but suppressed hatred under those soft features. The only things in those ice chips of eyes is apathy at best.

The two of them lock each other in their gaze; Project’s hands in shaking fists while Ryo’s expression and demeanor oozes nothing but an infuriating amount of control.

 

“Don’t.” , he says, voice plain and toneless, “Do not play this game of who lost more with me. I will win. Because, Yes. I killed _alllll_ your little friends.”

 

Project trembles, teeth grinding together as he presses forward in his rage, ignoring the way the gun barrel painfully scrapes against the bridge of his nose. His claws for nails dig deep into his palms, cutting into calloused flesh with ease.

Ryo continues,

 

“But need I remind you of who they were? What you are? What _I_ am?”

 

, his hand tightens on the gun, leather creaking against itself. Project’s snarl falters, his fists lowering a degree.

He was right.  
They were demons, he the Angel Killer. A weapon against this man’s very existence.

 

“So yes.” , Ryo says, “ They screamed. For you or whoever Amon is. But don’t forget part where _allll_ the angels you all slaughtered screamed too. And that you came into that forest to make me into one of them.”

 

Ding.

 

  
The metal doors of the elevator slide open.

Project breathes, labored and slow as Ryo pulls the gun back and replaces it inside his coat. He steps out, making his way down the narrow hallway a few feet before dropping Project’s belt on the floor with a thud.

Project watches him silently, stepping out so the elevator could close and zip away to where it was needed next.

“If you want to escape..now is your chance to do so.”

, Ryo sighs, back facing him still as he walks forward, turning to the side a little ways down the hall. He lifts his hands, one pulling the others glove off with a slow motion. Ryo presses his hand against some strange metal square beside the door. It glows green and beeps, the door clicking and falling open an inch,

“But if you’re serious…If all those tears and words back there meant anything and you really do want to help the world stop hurting…I’ll see you inside. If not...I’m sorry.”

The angel looks at him, those eyes so full of nothingness and cruelty all night long suddenly just..eyes. Tired ones, at that. Exhausted and drained.

 

 

“For your …friends. What were their names?”

 

He can barely speak, his voice is so tight and strained with emotion.

 

“…Valefar. Agares. M-Michael.”

 

Ryo looks down, nodding solemnly, as if mostly to himself.

 

“Valefar, Agares, Michael.” , he echos, “I am sorry.”

 

 

Project feels something clog his throat as Ryo steps inside his room without another word, door shutting behind him.

He’s left alone, standing in the hallway, the glass wall to his right displaying nothing but the endless reaches of the city. Bright lights flashing. Cars flying along the breeze. A million humans and hidden demons alike heading off to sleep or drink or laugh or cry. And somewhere far away lied his friends. Forever.

But who was he? Who was he really? , he thinks as he walks forward, kneeling down quietly to pick up his fallen belt. He lifts it to his face, looking over its worn clasps and tattered pouches.

He and the others had gone into those woods for the sole purpose of hunting and killing an angel. They were killers. No matter how Silene and Jenny span it, they were killers. Murderers, savages, and thieves. Greedy for blood and territory and power over one another.

 

 

Was it true? Was any of it? Did angels truly hunt the demons for sport? Or was there more to it then that?

Demons did not need to eat angels, so were they the ones slaying for sport? And if so, why? Angels always seemed so beautiful. So…peaceful before they burst into their hiding places to splash their blood across the walls.

Ryo had killed three demons.  
And Project and his friends had killed….how many angels? Humans?

When he mulls it over in his mind, he can’t find the number. Can’t count the faces he watched plead for God or mercy beneath him.

Sure, he cried over them. But did that take away from the fact that he had done it nevertheless? Sure, it was Amon doing the killing, but it was Project handing him the reigns.

 

 

  
Project flips open the top of one of the belt pockets, gingerly pulling out his dictionary.

He brushes his fingers over the green section of tabs, flipping the book open to one of the pages. He skims the words, pointed nail dragging over every one until it stops.

  
_Forgive: to stop feeling angry or resentful toward (someone) for an offense, flaw, or mistake_.

  
Project lifts his head slowly, pressing the open dictionary over the beat of his heart.

Michael. Valefar. Agares. They were killed mercilessly. Without hesitation or consideration for their lives.  
Michael. Valefar. Agares. They killed mercilessly. Without hesitation or consideration for others lives.  
And Project had been no better.

But he was still here. He was still living and breathing and thinking.  
He could still feel the pain of the empty space his friends left behind.  
Just like he was sure Ryo could feel the agony of the countless brothers and sisters he had come to lose.

“Forgive..”

, he whispers,

“Forgive…”

 

His new favorite word.

 

.  
.  
.


End file.
